


Absence Makes The Heart (Figure Shit Out)

by cherrymartini



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Derek Comes Back, Derek Leaves, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, canonical violence, explicit masturbation, post S03, preslash, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrymartini/pseuds/cherrymartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s phone is ringing. Its quiet buzzing echoing in the empty loft, caller ID flashing <i>Stiles</i> across the screen. It goes silent and dark again as the call is sent to voicemail, before an alert lights up the screen.</p><p><i>1 missed call, no new messages</i>.</p><p>A moment later the buzzing starts again, vibrating insistently against the countertop.</p><p>Derek is 100 miles away, foot on the gas, distance growing with every passing moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence Makes The Heart (Figure Shit Out)

Derek’s phone is ringing. Its quiet buzzing echoing in the empty loft, caller ID flashing _Stiles_ across the screen. It goes silent and dark again as the call is sent to voicemail, before an alert lights up the screen.

 _1 missed call, no new messages_.

A moment later the buzzing starts again, vibrating insistently against the countertop.

Derek is 100 miles away, foot on the gas, distance growing with every passing moment.

***

Stiles’ phone smashes into the wall, screen cracking before it drops to the carpet with a thud. He runs an agitated hand through his hair, “God damn it, Derek.”

Stiles can’t understand how he could just up and leave like this, take Cora and get the hell out of dodge while the going was good. Before the shit really hit the fan and the newly awakened Nemeton rained all manner of fresh hell down on them all. No reason to stick around and help them out, not like they, like _Stiles_ , had done for him, after all they’d been through together... His mental tirade comes to a screeching halt and Stiles feels his anger drain away… Of course he’d leave, why wouldn’t he, what did he have keeping him here really? A burnt out house, a creepy sociopath for an uncle and several lifetimes worth of bad memories. 

For all that he’d been the walking definition of the strong, silent type, leather clad and untouchable, there had been so many little tells. 

The way he’d stayed in the crumbling house his family died in despite the obviously expensive car making it clear he had the money to crash in a motel at least. The way he’d taken the time to bury Laura under a ritual wolfsbane spiral despite the fact that it would have burned the skin off his hands, left him weak for days from the exposure. And he’d never even had a moment to himself to grieve his _murdered sister_ before he was under attack on all sides. 

Stiles remembers how suspicious they’d been of him, how they’d blamed him, how sure they’d been when they’d accused him of his sister’s murder and wants to slam his face into the back of his door. The same door Derek had pinned him to the second time Stiles and Scott had accused him of murder and he’d hidden here with the reason he was the subject of a statewide man hunt because he’d simply had nowhere else to go. At the time Stiles had thought it was because the last place the Sheriff would look was in his own son’s bedroom, now he thinks it might be that Derek just didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

He thinks he should have realized sooner the man Derek is. If not before he became the Alpha then not long after. He should have seen it in the way he chose his beta’s, chose abused, scared, lonely kids and tried to give them something better. He probably could have done a better job of it but there’s a big part of Stiles that thinks maybe Derek’s just an abused, scared lonely kid himself. Smirking, stubbled and well muscled as he may be.

And really, Stiles gets it, that desire to run, to start fresh. Most of all he gets how tempting it is to just once, _just once_ , be the one to leave first, before you can be left behind again. He gets why that must be a fucking siren’s call to Derek.

He gets it. But he doesn’t like it.

He’s choosing not to think about why.

***

They’ve been driving for two days and Derek’s gotten closer to knowing who his sister is now in between California and Washington than he had in the months she’d lived with him. She’s treating him like her brother again, like some part of him is still the boy she remembers and Derek wants nothing more than to learn how to be him again. It’s probably more effort than it’s worth, but he thinks there probably isn’t much he wouldn’t do for her either so he’s trying.

They drive up the coastline, Cora had always loved the beach when they were kids so Derek’s taking the roads that keep them as close to the ocean as possible. They don’t have a destination, Cora wanted to leave and Derek had no reason to stay, so he’s just driving aimlessly north while she quietly sings along to the radio from the passenger seat. Stopping at quiet coves and cheesy themed diners, wherever catches Cora’s attention, and deliberately not thinking about what lies behind them.

 

***

The sun is beating down on the bleachers where Stiles is sprawled out with Scott, soaking in the warmth. He’s always a little cold lately, there’s a slight chill that defies his constant layering, stems from beneath his skin.  
Stiles is staring blankly towards the car park, mind elsewhere, when he catches a glimpse of black leather stretched tight across broad shoulders and something in his chest shifts.

“Dude, are you listening?” Scott waves a hand in front of Stiles face and Stiles bats it away.  
“Yeah, Deaton, training, I’m listening.” Scott narrows his eyes a bit before letting it drop and continuing his mostly one-sided conversation on the trials of True-Alphadom.  
Stiles would feel guilty but he figures he’s earned a few of preoccupied lapses of attention, God knows Scott racked them up during the early Allison days, and all the days since if he’s being honest and just a little petty.  
And Stiles did not just compare Derek to Allison, this is not the same thing. It’s not. It’s not.  
And even if it could have been, it’s too late now. Derek’s gone and even if he did come back it’s not like it would be for _Stiles_. It’s not like Stiles even wants him to.  
Stiles shakes his head for emphasis and glares at the spot leather jacket had been.

The sun’s too bright now, the shadows at the tree line are beckoning and he just wants to run until he can blame his lack of breath and the tightness in chest on exhaustion.

Stiles can see Scott darting worried looks at him, knows he heard the skip in his heartbeat but he’s too busy trying to reconcile the way the whole world suddenly feels a little wrong, the smallest bit off centre, to give him any kind of excuse.

***

There’s a public pool across the street from the cafe they’ve stopped at for lunch. The smell of chlorine is sharp and burning in the back of Derek’s throat, he hadn’t minded it when he’d been younger, hell he’d been on the high school swim team. Now though, it makes him antsy, has him glancing over his shoulder at every noise. It was his own fault he ended up paralyzed in the damn pool, he’d known better than to turn his back on a threat. It had been drilled into him as a child, first by Laura and her pathological need to pick on him, then later by Peter and his constant scheming. He’d known better but Stiles had been right behind him, always right behind him, and all thoughts of tactical dominance and self preservation flew clear out the window with the need to protect this stupidly stubborn sixteen year old from both Jackson and his own compulsive need to sacrifice himself.

Derek had hoped he’d grow out of it, learn to think before he went sprinting heart first at every single thing that wanted him dead. He almost thought he had the night they found Cora and Boyd, _and Erica_ he reminds himself, not that there was all that much of her left to find. Stiles had been the one to fight Derek on his plan, to look for a way that didn’t have Derek walking alone into the Alpha pack’s den. 

Maybe he had, but then he’d stepped into the gasoline for Scott, let himself be drowned for his father, and it doesn’t get much more self sacrificing than an actual, literal sacrifice. Derek had pushed away the relief he’d found in knowing Stiles was still the same kid who’d dove in after him without hesitation, had held his head above water for hours, kept Derek afloat long after his muscles had started shaking with exhaustion. 

He doesn’t know how he made it on to the list of people Stiles is willing to throw himself into the fire for but he’s there and he’s never known how to handle that, how to handle Stiles. 

Stiles who fights when he should run, stands firm when he’s afraid, challenges when he should submit. He’s too smart and too stubborn and too soft-hearted. Always the one who stays, steady and sure, long after he should have walked away. 

Derek thinks maybe he owed him more than this, than a message passed through Scott. In hindsight, he should have at least gone to see him before he left.

It’s too late now. 

And isn’t that just the running theme of his life.

**

Derek’s been gone four days when the battery in his phone dies, Stiles’ call goes straight to voicemail and for the first time it really hits him. Derek isn’t coming back. 

_Derek isn’t coming back._  
With all of the oxygen seemingly sucked from the room and feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the solar plexus, Stiles finally leaves a message. He meant for it to be sarcastic but he’s just so tired that it comes out on the wrong side of too honest. Quiet and a little lost.

_“You could have said goodbye.”_

***

The loft is too quiet but Boyd’s last words are almost lost in the slowing, stuttering beat of his pulse echoing in Derek’s ears. _It was worth it._ Boyd’s blood is slicking his hands, staining them red, his eyes offering absolution Derek doesn’t deserve and Derek can’t breathe. It should have been him, the mantra repeating in his head, why is it never him? There are strong fingers resting on his shoulder, they’re the only thing keeping him from flying apart, from being crushed under the weight of circumstance and mistakes and fault that’s pressing him down, forcing him to his knees. He leans into the touch, needing this one desperate, selfish moment of solace. Just one moment to breath and break before he has to stand up and keep fighting. He just needs to keep fighting.

He’s not sure he remembers what he’s fighting for. Doesn’t know if he still wants to win. Isn’t sure if he really has anything left to lose.

Blood tinged water is soaking him to the skin and he can feel it in his bones, the familiar chill spreading in his veins. A bitter contrast to the single point of warmth that’s still holding strong, still holding on. Derek doesn’t need to turn around to know whose standing close and unwavering at his back, he knows, he always knows.

Derek wakes to the sound of Cora turning on the shower, the generic smell of cheap motel and the ghost of a hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding.

***

The water’s cold when Stiles ducks his head under the faucet, flinching at the chill but keeping his face turned into the stream in a futile attempt to wash away the lingering sense of dread. The only constant in his dreams of late.  
There are droplets chasing each other along his jawline, his lips are bitten raw to keep from screaming in his sleep but all he can see are his mother’s eyes. Staring back at him from above the same bruise dark circles she’d had staining her skin in those final weeks. He looks like he’s dying, he thinks hysterically, he’s falling apart and losing his mind and his mother’s eyes are watching.

The mirror rains shards into the sink when it shatters against his fist.

Stiles feels like he’s drowning, can’t get enough air, can’t break through the surface. The laugh that stutters out of him when he thinks of the two hours he spent holding Derek afloat is bitter. Where is he now, Stiles thinks angrily, it should be his turn to keep me from going under.

His phone is in his hand and he’s pressing call before he even registers reaching for it.

Derek’s brusque message fills his ear (seriously, even his fucking voicemail is grumpy) and anger pools hot and impotent in his stomach. Stiles hangs up before the beep.

Punching his pillow into submission several sleepless hours later, his knuckles are still bleeding sluggishly, his skin feels like it’s stretched too tight over his bones and he still doesn’t know why he called.

Sleep finally comes for him when the first rays of morning light are creeping through his window, chasing shadows from the hollows of his cheeks. 

He dreams of wolves and bright blue eyes.

***

Derek’s waiting to pay for gas when he see’s it, in the rack of panoramic views and generic ‘wish you were here’s, there’s a grey wolf running through the rocky mountain landscape, white horror movie script reading ‘I survived the Montana wolves’. It’s exactly the kind of thing Stiles would find hilarious, especially coming from Derek. He picturing the amused quirk of Stiles’ lips and trying to remember the last time he heard him genuinely laugh when he tosses it on the counter with his bottle of water and Cora’s candy bar. He’s pulling back onto the highway when he realizes he can’t remember ever hearing Stiles laugh and is halfway up the turn off to the motel when he registers just how much he wants to.

Cora’s out, has taken the car in search of a Starbucks to ‘get a decent latte and take shameless advantage of the free wifi’, and Derek’s sitting at the table crammed in the corner, staring at the postcard and wondering what the hell he was thinking.

Ten minutes later he’s still staring at the blank message space and tapping his pen against the scratched paint of the motel table to the beat of a song Cora had on repeat that morning. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, what he could say. There’s been so much left unsaid between them that Derek doesn’t know where to start.

The camero’s tires crunch on the gravel outside and Derek snaps out of his indecision. It doesn’t matter what he writes, there’s not much point in writing anything at all. It’s not like he’s actually going to send the fucking thing.

The postcard is stuffed in the bottom of his duffle and he’s sprawled out on one of the beds idly flicking through channels like he’s been there the whole time when she comes in, holding out a take away cup and muffin. It’s nice, they’ve come a long way in the last few weeks and Derek’s kind of ridiculously touched that, even after all these years, she still remembers that blueberry is his favorite.

He know’s she catches the lie in his heartbeat when he tells her he spent the afternoon watching trashy tv, there’s a flash of hurt on her face before her expression turns sly. Derek thinks about the the white writing beneath the wolf and has no idea why he’s hiding this. Cora would probably get a kick out if it, right after she stopped gaping at Derek for displaying any hint of an actual sense of humor. 

The amused and knowing look she shoots him say she thinks he spent it jerking off. Honestly, it would have been a more productive use of his time.

Derek doesn’t correct her.

***

Stiles has one hand wrapped around his cock and the other at his throat. He can feel his pulse racing, the breathy gasps and broken moans stuttering from his mouth as he presses down.

Pictures strong arms holding him down, keeping him pinned. He’s making small, aborted thrusts into his hand and he tries to still his hips, imagines a smooth voice telling him to be still, to wait. Telling Stiles he’ll come when he’s ready to make him come and not before. He throws his head back, baring his throat in submission, as he holds himself a little tighter. His hand moving faster now, his movements deliberate and no longer teasing.

And if it’s the physical dominance of barely leashed strength and a larger body over his, the hard cut of abs and the sweet burn of stubble that does it for him now, then that’s nobody’s business but his.

He’s thrusting into his fist now, leaking slick all over his hand and the clenched muscles of his stomach. Sinking his teeth into bottom lip hard enough to draw blood and hearing a sharp command in his ear.

_Come for me._

And if it's Derek's voice in his ear, Derek’s name on his tongue, when he spills over his hand, well, there's no-one around to hear it.

***

Cora’s been talking about finding a pack, settling somewhere with the safety that comes from numbers. It hadn’t been an option the last time he’d left Beacon Hills, no pack had been willing to take in a new Alpha, especially one as strong as Laura. Derek remembers how hard it had been for her, for them both, the running, the constant itch in their spines, like someone was watching, hunting them. They’d spent the first few months sleeping in shifts, curled up on the same bed, too afraid to of losing the only person they’d had left for either to let the other out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

He wishes they’d never gotten past that fear, as irrationally, unhealthily co-dependent as it had been. He wishes they’d never settled into the complacent sense of security that came with time. 

Most of all, he wishes he’d been with her when she went back to Beacon Hills. Everything could have been different.

Derek cuts that train of thought off at the knees, he can’t change the past, can’t unmake his mistakes, but he can do everything possible to keep Cora from ever having to live like that. He couldn’t before but if this is his second chance to get it right then he’s taking it. If Cora wants to be part of a pack then that’s what they’ll be. It doesn’t matter that Derek can’t imagine trusting someone new, let alone handing over his autonomy. He’s never really had the patience for pack politics and honestly can’t see himself making small talk with strangers and settling . It’ll be fine, he can fake a smile with the best of them. His happiness isn’t the priority anyway.

 

There are Alpha’s who remember that pack means family, support, that it’s not just about power and control but they’re becoming rarer, harder to find. Scott might just be one of them, Derek thinks privately, if he can survive long enough to grow out of the last vestiges of thoughtless, teenage self absorption, learn when to set aside his pride, then the potential is there for him to become an incredible leader. An Alpha who earns the respect of his pack rather than commanding it.

It would have been nice to see it happen. To be able to watch him grow into himself, all of them really. Isaac stands taller now, no longer flinching at his own shadow but he’s still got a long way to go before he’s comfortable in his skin, reconciled with his past.

He thinks of Allison and her new code. The Argents as allies, he thinks with a wry twist of a smile, who’d have seen that coming.

Lydia. The look on her face like she couldn’t believe they’d come back for her. Scared and strong and standing there like she hadn’t even considered there was somewhere else she could be. She reminds him of Laura.

Laura would have liked Lydia, Allison and Isaac too. She would have melted at Scott’s puppydog eyes and taken him under her wing in a heartbeat, would have known how to make him trust her. She would have been completely charmed by Stiles, Hale sarcasm is fucking legendary and Laura had always enjoyed anyone who could give as good as they got.

And doesn’t that descriptor just fit him to a tee. Stiles who’s probably the closest of all of them, Derek included, to being who he will be. Strong, smart, a little ruthless, he’ll be the perfect second, the counterbalance to Scott’s act first approach and bleeding heart.

Together they’ll probably grow into a hell of a pack. But they’re not his pack and he and Cora are heading North in search of a fresh start, looking for somewhere to call home. He stomps down on the snarky, insistent voice in the back of his head that says they’re looking in the wrong direction. 

It sounds a bit like Stiles.

***

Loud laughter filters over to where he’s sitting in the far corner of the yard with his back to the fence. He’s man enough to admit he’s hiding, his headache harmonizing with the throbbing bass coming from the house. Stiles doesn’t know whose party he’s at, he doesn’t know where Scott went or if he’s with Isaac or Allison or both. There’s a dynamic there that Stiles doesn’t want to examine too closely, doesn’t want to think about what that might mean for him and the escalating amount of alone time he’s had lately.  
Cheap vodka is burning his throat, loosening his tongue, as his takes another swig from the bottle by his feet. His thumb idly scrolling through his contacts, 

“I don’t know why I miss you. Or maybe I do, but I don’t want to.” He doesn’t elaborate on if it’s the knowing or missing he’s objecting too, it doesn’t really matter one way or the other, maybe it’s a little of both.

“I just... I miss you, asshole.”

Stiles watches two of his classmates trip over each other, giggling, in their haste to find somewhere secluded. He shouldn’t feel too old for this, but he does. Sighing, Stiles pulls himself to his feet, letting the bottle tip to the side and gets caught up in watching it spread a puddle before soaking into the ground. Remembers denim soaked dark and the shift of shoulders slumped in defeat under his hand.

It’s the same shift of muscle he’s been dreaming of, though in his dreams it’s him that’s been defeated, it’s him who comes undone.

***

Derek’s been half hard since he woke this morning from a dream of moles and smirks and lazy morning satisfaction. A familiar scent lingering in the back of his mind.  
Cora’s gone to pick up dinner and Derek’s taking advantage of time without a sister with supernatural hearing. She’s finally comfortable enough with him to tease him, it’s a mixed blessing.

The motel’s cheap but the water’s hot and the pressure’s decent so Derek takes a moment to just stand under the jet and let it melt away the tension from his neck. Takes a moment to just feel. His cock’s hanging thick and heavy between his thighs, a warm flush of arousal staining his skin.

He’s sliding his hand down over his abs, taking his time, letting his mind go blank. It’s been awhile since release has been more than a quick, perfunctory, biological imperative. Something to clear his mind and help him sleep. He’s missed this, the simple pleasure of a slow build. Palming his cock with one hand he lets the other trail down to tug at his balls. He’s focused on the sensation, shades of his dream creeping around the edges of his consciousness, flashes of a fantasy. A slender body pinned under his own, long legs tangling with his own, arms stretched out and restrained, both wrists caught under one of Derek’s hands while he takes him apart. And it’s definitely a him, Derek can practically feel the heat of his cock pressing hard into his thigh like a brand. The lean muscles going taut as he’s struggling to get free, to get closer, to get his hands on Derek’s skin.

The fingers wrapped around his cock are thick and blunt but the ones in his mind are longer, thinner, teasing and desperate. Derek tightens his grip and speeds up, breathing hard now. His face is turned away from the spray, mouth open and craving the salt slick taste of virgin skin.  
Derek let his eyes fall shut and pictures his own hand splayed huge and dark against the delicate, pale skin of the guys neck, his body arching up into Derek’s touch, panting and shaking apart beneath him.

Biting into his fist to muffle his groan, Derek’s eyes flash blue as he comes in thick, white strands all over the tiled wall.

***

“Aren’t you worried that no-one’s heard a fucking peep from Peter?”

“I don’t know. ” His words are muffled. Scott has his face buried in his hands, his whole body curling in on itself like if he can just get small enough then he can hide from the shit storm of their lives, from the rapid fire questions Stiles has been shooting at him for the majority of their lunch period. 

Stiles officially feels like an asshole.

Looking back, Stiles thinks he maybe should have cut Derek a a bit more slack. This Alpha shit is hard, it’s not like he was trained for it either. He was never meant to be Alpha, probably never wanted to be.

When he’d killed Peter, Scott had been pissed, so sure that he’d stolen Scott’s only chance for a cure on some psycho power trip. Stiles had been secretly relieved.

If it hadn’t worked, and let’s face it, it probably wouldn’t have, Scott would have been the Alpha. The sixteen year old, newly turned Alpha with no idea what he’s doing, no way to protect himself or deal with the blood on his hands. He would have been dead within a month. Wasn’t cut out for it.

If Stiles is being honest he can’t help but think that hasn’t changed much, even if Scott’s eyes have.

Can’t help but wish Derek were here, still grudgingly obligated to protect them. Still watching over them like a reluctant, red-eyed guardian angel.

 

***

The waitress is flirting, looking up at him through her lashes, all coy blue eyes and flashes of a shy, lip-biting smile. Derek thinks of Jennifer, Julia he reminds himself, thinks of how completely she’d had him fooled and his stomach rolls over, appetite gone. He hadn’t let someone in that quickly since Paige and he still can’t figure out why.

He thinks maybe it had to do with the awkward mix of intelligence and self-deprecation, something about the way she’d drawn him in had been so familiar, so calming, that he couldn’t help but want to trust her.  
Something about the helpless smile she’d brought to his face with her nervous babbling, the way she couldn’t keep her hands still, the way all that energy had felt when it was singularly focused with him as the central point.

He’d been so completely charmed that he hadn’t thought twice about going to her when it hadn’t been Stiles he’d scented at the school.

Her scent bore the same tinge of ozone and, with his mind so fogged with pain, it wasn’t until he was closer that he’d realized it was wrong, had been able to make out the notes of smoke and fire and blood that clung to her. Then it felt like common ground, now he thinks it should have been a warning. Beneath the chemical tang of Adderall, Stiles always smells like the breaking of a summer thunderstorm. Fresh and clean and... 

_Stiles._

The resemblance is so glaringly obvious that he seriously cannot believe he missed it. Jesus fuck, Derek thinks to himself, it was all there laid out in front of him in all the ways she’d felt right and even more so in all the ways she hadn’t been, almost, so close but never quite it. For all that he’d managed to completely miss every indicator, now that the realization has hit it’s impossible push to the back of his mind and forget.

It’s been the spiderweb at the edge of his vision for months now, more maybe, and now that he’s pretty much walked right fucking into it he can’t seem to brush it off. Can’t stop picking at every individual thread of reason and proof and _how could he not have known._

Derek has the sudden and desperate desire to punch himself in the face.

***

Stiles has been quietly picking apart the end of his sleeve for the last fifteen minutes. His mouth is dry and his throat is a little hoarse but for possibly the first time in, well, ever he’s completely talked out.  
“That’s… a lot to take in, son.” The sheriff’s whiskey glass is sitting off to the side, untouched, and his eyes are clear. Worried and sad and so tired that it hurts a little to look at him, but clear. Stiles wonders absently if maybe that’s how he looks too, if maybe, just in this moment, he looks more like his father than his mother.  
“I know.” Stiles says quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the scuffed wood of their kitchen table.  
“You kept this secret, _you lied to me_ , for over a year.” He isn’t angry, he’s resigned. It’s so much worse.  
“I know.”  
“I just don’t understand what I could have done to make you feel like you couldn’t trust me with this. I thought we...” The sheriff stops, clears his throat and continues, “I know lately things haven’t been all that great between us, I know I haven’t…I’m sorry Stiles, I’m so sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to me.”  
“Dad, no!” Stiles jerks his head up to stare at his father. “I trust you. I do. It was never about that. I never thought I couldn’t come to you, I just didn’t want to.”  
John looks like he’s been slapped. Stiles doesn’t stop to think about how that sounds, words tumbling over each other in their haste to escape his mouth.  
“I never wanted you involved in this. I thought that maybe if you weren’t a part of it then you couldn’t be hurt by it. I just… I couldn’t… I need you. You’re all I’ve got left and…”  
The I can’t lose you is lost in the Sheriff’s shoulder as he drags Stiles out of his chair and into a tight hug.  
“You’re not gonna lose me. You’re not gonna lose me.”

Stiles fists his hands in the back of John’s t-shirt, buries his face in his shoulder and holds on.

 

***

Derek eyes the payphone, late morning sun glinting on the dust streaked plastic of the booth half collapsed against the crumbling brickwork of the gas station wall.

He doesn’t know Stiles’ number, didn’t memorize it. Can’t say he’d use it if he did.

 

Dawn’s closing in, Cora’s snoring softly from the passenger seat and Derek’s six towns and a state line away when he admits to himself that he can’t say he wouldn’t either.

***

He’d been warned about the darkness but he hadn’t expected this. The way it settles in his chest, squeezing his heart and and catching his breath. The way his vision blurs and shifts, going grey around the edges. His head feels like it’s splintering apart, falling and crashing and he’s fighting to focus, to find something to cling to. Anything to keep him anchored against the growing tidal wave of panic steadily rising to crest. He’s fumbling for his phone, clutching it in a shaking hand and trying to force unresponsive fingers to dial someone, anyone.

Stiles feels his breathing begin to even out as Derek’s voicemail picks up, his heart rate slowing to match the cadence of his voice. He drops his head onto his knees and lets himself breath, hanging up and pressing redial. Stiles soaks in the calm grounding of Derek’s voice before he’s hit with a fresh wave of panic because no. Oh God, no.

No, really. Oh God no. 

How could he not have realized? Stiles raises his face from his knees only to slap in back down into his palm. He can’t believe he missed this. Stiles is the first to admit he’s pretty much perfected lying to himself to a fucking art form, but as a general rule, he at least has a general idea what he’s lying about.  
He’d known that he was attracted to the guy, he has eyes and a type, it was pretty much a given. He would have maybe even admitted to being a little fond, what with the whole mutual life saving thing and all, but this?  
This is nothing like the way he’d convinced himself he felt for Lydia. This is the fire burning low and hot in his stomach, scalding his insides. This is the sharp edge of his focus, slicing clean with the clarity of hindsight.  
It had been carved across his face, clear in his movements, sculpting his choices.

This is the reason he could never stop himself from running straight back into the fight.

 

***

The sunset is turning the Nevada sky the same burnt gold as the desert stretching out before them when Cora finally asks. "Why her?"  
They’re sitting on the hood of the Camero, waiting for the full moon to rise and the question hangs between them as Derek stares unseeing at the spot on the horizon where the sand bleeds into the sky. He has too many reasons and too many answers and too many justifications to deflect and shut down. He can feel his wolf pushing a his control, wanting to break through and run free. It’s making him His mouth goes dry when the one he's been denying hits him out of the blue to send the rest skittering out of his head. Obvious and unexpected and completely at odds with everything he's been telling himself, syncing with the dreamscape of a 4am that knows all his secrets.

He doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to lie, doesn't know what it'll do to him to acknowledge the truth out loud, doesn't know if he can be laid so bare, flayed open under the weight of judgement in her eyes. Derek clenches his fists, lets his hands shift, lets his claws sink into the soft flesh of his palms and opens his mouth. He can't give her much, doesn't have it left in him to offer, but he can give her this. She deserves the truth, he owes her this much at least.

"She was the closest I could get to something I didn't know I wanted. Someone I shouldn't want."

He knows she catches the slip as soon as it leaves his mouth but he doesn't take it back, doesn't say anything more. He can't bring himself to give her a name or a reason but from the understanding in her eyes he thinks she knows it anyway.

***

The smell of cooked onions has his mouth watering as he drops another steak on the BBQ. It’s a beautiful day; the sun warm, the sky is blue and Stiles is safely in his direct line of sight, splayed out on the steps of their back porch with his laptop resting on his stomach.

And John is just so damn relieved to have nothing but honesty and clear air between him and Stiles, it shows in the lessening bags under his eyes, he feels it in the noticeable lightening of the metaphorical load on his shoulders. It isn’t gone but it hadn’t felt so metaphorical a month ago.

The world as he knew it has shifted into something that should only exist in horror movies and there’s a darkness in Stiles’ eyes, a bleak twist to his smile. But for all that he’s a little colder, and a whole hell of a lot older than should have any business being at seventeen, he has his son back and that’s enough for today. Besides, if John’s being completely honest with himself, that last bit’s not exactly a new development, Stiles has been older than his years since long before Scott was bitten. 

Stiles is equally relieved. John knows this, it shows in the way he hasn’t said a single word about the thick veins of fat marbling the steaks. John isn’t delusional enough to think ceasefire on Stiles own personal war on his cholesterol will last for long but he plans to enjoy it while it does.

The only sticking point is the _something_ that’s been niggling in the back of his mind since he’d sat down with Stiles and listened as he poured out the entire nightmare.

He’d already gotten a fair bit from Melissa but there had been huge, glaringly significant gaps in the story. The biggest being their sacrifice to the nemeton and the ensuing fallout. He still hasn’t addressed that, it’s a ticking time bomb and they both know it but he hasn’t got a clue where to begin.

The second being Derek Hale.

Derek Hale who spent the week he was in hiding sleeping in his son’s bedroom. Who, even John can admit is darkly handsome with a firsthand understanding of the kind of loss that was instrumental in shaping his son. Who Stiles kept going back for, regardless of his standing with Scott or whether they were even on the same side at the time. Who Stiles sometimes screams for while lost in a nightmare.

John has a sudden flashback to the night outside of the club, the indignant way Stiles had said he _could be_. He’d been so sure it was just a deflection that he’d brushed it off, and maybe it really had been but he can’t help but think now that it was more than that. 

He should find a way to bring it up, to let him know that it doesn’t matter to him as long as Stiles is safe and happy. He’s never been prouder of anything than he is of the man his son has become and, as far as he’s concerned, anyone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect him is exactly the kind of person he wants to see him with. Regardless of gender. He flips the steak, listens to it sizzle on the grill. Of course this is assuming that he’s right.

Screw it. No point in beating around the bush.

“So...Derek Hale, huh?”

John hasn’t seen Stiles blush like that since the 5th grade when he told Claudia about Lydia Martin for the first time. It’s just as ridiculously cute now as it was then. He smiles down at the grill and busies himself with plating their dinner.

He’s right.

 

***

There’s a pack in Wyoming that seem’s promising. They’d been allied to their mother and are stable and established enough to be in a position to take in strays. Fucking Stiles and his god damned dog jokes. Even Derek’s thoughts were filling in the spaces with Stiles own brand of sarcastic wit.

The Cooper pack had been less than friendly when Laura had been Alpha, already in a state of upheaval due to the changeover from one Alpha to the next and unwilling to risk bringing in a second to give a figurehead to any challenges made to the Claim. Their pack, their _family_ , may have been decimated but the Hale name still carried enough weight to be a threat. Two born beta’s are a different story. When Jacob Cooper had heard of Derek’s sacrifice and subsequent denial of power he’d been more than willing to roll out the welcome mat. Derek and Cora may be the all that’s left (no-one’s said a word about Peter and Derek doesn’t plan to) but they’re still Hale’s and that still means something.

Cora likes them, likes the stability, the safety of being part of a pack again.  
Derek can’t settle, keeps finding himself half way out the door with his keys in his hand before he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. He’s trying, he really is, but there’s something keeping his guards up, keeping him on edge. He wanted this too, wanted the security of an established pack, the lightened burden of being just another beta, but he just can’t make himself treat this as anything more than temporary, as more than just one more stop on the way to somewhere else.

Cora does them both a favor and pretends not to know why.

***

Lydia watches the pretty blond girl blush at Stiles, she thinks her name is Sara or maybe Sasha, either way the alliteration there is charming. Or it would be if Stiles would just look up from that damn book. 

“You know homecoming’s next week. I think you should ask her.” Lydia tells him, settling herself into the recently vacated chair opposite him as he pours over yet another book on druidic ritual, trying to get ahead of whatever supernatural clusterfuck the newly awakened nemeton could be bringing their way. Stiles doesn’t even look up.  
“My heart is forever spoken for by a strawberry blond goddess, you know that Lyds.” His reply is flippant, words flowing with the ease of habit and none of the stilted honesty of true sentiment. Really, she thinks, it’s so obvious, is he even listening to himself anymore?  
“We both know that’s never going to happen.”  
He looks up from his book and places a melodramatic hand over his heart. “You say that now but one day you will come to see the perfection that is our destiny and we’ll live happily ever after with a whole pile of beautiful, genius babies.” Lydia is rapidly losing patience.  
“Stiles! You’re not in love with me.” She snaps at him.  
“I know.” He says a little exasperated but mostly calm and not looking particularly surprised by the turn this verbal ambush is taking. Lydia stops short. 

Well, that wasn’t the response she’d expected, she’d been anticipating a denial, some half-hearted overtures and deliberately cliched proclamations of undying love. She’s a little miffed to be honest, she’d spent half the night coming up with counter-arguments only to have sacrificed her precious and much needed beauty sleep for nothing. Stiles must see something in her face that said this conversation was far from over because he sighs, closes his book and give her his full attention.  
“Then I don’t understand, why..?” She doesn’t need to finish the question, Stiles is already answering, voice resigned and face tight like it’s physically hurting him to bite out the words.  
“Because we’ll never happen. I just...when my mom...you were this untouchable...you weren’t ever going to be mine and if you’re not mine then I can’t lose you.” He sighs, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of this core truth, “If I’m hung up on a fantasy then there’ll be no-one to lose.”

And Lydia has clearly not been giving Stiles enough credit. She’d known he was smart, he’s very nearly challenging her for top place in several classes, if not for his ADHD he could have been of serious concern to her chances for validictorian, but she hadn’t expected this level of self awareness. He’s scared and damaged and a little misguided perhaps but it takes emotional maturity she hadn’t even guessed at to admit it. She’d planned to leave this conversation wanting to pet him on the head for coming to accept that she was absolutely right but instead she’s finding herself wanting to wrap her arms around him and shield him from the world. 

She’d felt similarly about Jackson sometimes, when he’d dropped the pretence he wore like armour and let her in. Derek too, once or twice, though she’d never consider actually trying to hug him. Stiles probably would, he’d be bitching at Derek while he wrapped those deceptively strong arms around him and… oh.

Oh.

That dynamic suddenly makes so much sense. Lydia wonders for a moment if maybe the strawberry blond goddess bit was the only part of that declaration that was a lie. Stiles is fidgeting with the corner of his book and she focuses her attention back on him.  
“I do love you though.” He’s looking up at her through his lashes and Lydia just gives up, slides her chair around to his and wraps her arms around him. God help her but she maybe loves him back, just a little.  
“So you should.” Lydia tells him, running a hand through his hair. She waits a beat and follows with “I’m sure, in another life, we would have had truly terrifying children.” Stiles chokes out a surprised laugh and hugs her back.  
“Damn straight.”

***

Cora’s looking for Derek’s wallet to pay the pizza guy when she finds it, it’s not like she’s snooping she just hadn’t realized she didn’t actually have any cash on her when she’d ordered. It’s completely legitimate. This shouldn’t even be something she needs to justify but she feels like she’s just stumbled upon something incredibly personal. Derek doesn’t have a lot of personal items, a few photo’s of Laura from their time in New York, a couple of books that had survived the fire and one family Christmas card that has all of them smiling and decked out in truly hideous festive sweaters. It’s from the last year they were all together and Cora can’t look at it without feeling the weight of their absence crash into her all over again. She’s pretty sure Derek can’t either.

The postcard’s from Montana, a little dog eared and looks as though it’s been handled pretty regularly.

She hadn’t thought Derek was sentimental enough to keep souvenirs. Isn’t sure why Montana would make the cut if he were. The card itself is pretty funny, perfectly suited to Derek’s dry humor, less cutting than Peter’s and often completely missed by anyone who didn’t already know it was there.

Cora’s about to tuck it back into its not particularly secret hiding place when she catches a glimpse of the other side. He hasn’t written a message. It isn’t even signed but Stiles’ name and address are neatly filled out in the designated space. She’s still standing there deciding what to do with it when she hears Derek get out of the shower, hears him talking to pizza guy. God, he’s probably just standing there in a towel making the poor kid feel completely inadequate. He’s her brother but she has eyes. Derek is unrealistically attractive in a way that is just deeply and profoundly unfair, it’s an established fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun is hot and her brother is prettier than she is.

And if she’s aware of this then Stiles has to be too, right? She knows he cares about Derek, knows he’s genuinely interested in knowing him and if he’s anything less than a thousand percent straight then he’s got to be at least a little attracted to him too, right?

She’s sliding the postcard into the back pocket of her jeans and heading back out to their small living room before she can remember all the reasons why this is an invasion of privacy and probably a pretty epic breach of trust. Derek’s standing by the door in a pair of sweatpants, pizza in hand and eyebrow raised in question.  
“I couldn’t find your wallet.” She tells him with a grin, completely unapologetic. She’s his little sister, she’s sort of obligated to be a brat sometimes.  
“You couldn’t find it sitting on the coffee table?” He asks dryly and Cora is choosing not to dignify that with an answer. As a peace offering she lets Derek pick the movie, grabs a slice and settles in beside him on the couch. The top corner of the postcard is poking her every time she shifts in her seat, a constant reminder. She’ll post it tomorrow.

It still won’t be signed but she thinks Stiles will know _exactly_ who it’s from anyway.

***

Stiles is halfway into his bedroom, school bag slung over his shoulder, sorting the mail into piles of bills and college brochures when his fingers catch on the rigid corner of a postcard. He drops his bag where he’s standing, the rest of the mail in a pile on the end of his bed and sprawls across the pillows. Staring blankly at his name scrawled across the back. There’s no message but there’s only two people it could be from and only one has handwriting that freakishly neat. It’s not vain hope if it’s the only valid hypothesis. 

Turning it over in his hands Stiles huffs out a surprised laugh at the picture on the front. Montana huh? 

He hears Scott yelling out his arrival, his footsteps echoing in the hall. Stiles shakes his head in fond exasperation, Scott may be a supernatural creature of the night but stealthy he is not. He shoves it under his pillow when Scott comes bounding into his room like the overgrown puppy Stiles hopes part of him will always be.

He’s shifting his weight and seems to have stalled in the doorway, Stiles eyes him warily, waiting.

“So we’re being normal.” Scott says finally, determined. “Today we’re ignoring all things supernatural and insane and I’m going to cheer you up.” He’s grinning proudly and Stiles feels something in his chest loosen.  
“Yeah? You got something in mind?”  
Scott hold up his Star Wars original trilogy box set from downstairs and Stiles grins helplessly in reply and waves him over to the bed, getting up to grab his laptop.  
“So you’re finally ready to accept the magic that is George Lucas into your life?”

They’re halfway through The Empire Strikes Back when Stiles mind starts wandering back to the postcard. He’s not sure why he’s guarding it so jealously, it’s not like it means anything besides Derek finding a sense of humour somewhere in the mountains of Montana. But then again, as far as he knows, no-one else got a postcard. Scott’s voice shakes him out of his head.  
“Dude, you okay?” There’s a worried twist to his mouth that Stiles fucking hates. Fuck it, he decides and tells him.  
“I got a postcard from Derek.”  
Scott is outright staring at him now so Stiles continues in a rush. “At least I think it’s from Derek, he’s kinda the only person it could be from and I’m pretty sure it was his handwriting.” At this point he’s actually pretty sure it’s just wishful thinking but there’s a voice in the back of his head that tells him it has to be from Derek.  
“What did it say?”  
“Nothing.” Stiles tells him honestly, “The message section was totally blank.”  
“Yeah, that’d definitely be from Derek.” Scott laughs. He must have seen something on Stiles face though, because he rests a supportive hand on Stiles’ knee when he says it.

The laptop screen is dark and Scott is snuffling in his sleep where he’s curled up against the wall beside Stiles. There are so many dog jokes there but for once Stiles wont make them, he’s too grateful not to be sleeping alone. He folds down the blankets enough to squeeze under them, Scott making a huffing noise when Stiles jostles him, and stretches out on his side, hand sneaking up to rest under the pillow.

Stiles sleeps with his fingers grazing the edges, curling around to keep it close.

*** 

“Even if you did want to go back it wouldn’t mean you’d lose me again.” Cora pulls his hand into her lap and holds on tight. “You won’t ever lose me again. You’re my big brother. I love you.” It’s the first time she’s said it in years. She looks up at him and her eyes are shining, unguarded, and just like that, she’s seven years old again, climbing into his bed and sharing her carefully hoarded cookie stash while he tells her ghost stories by torchlight. She’s eleven and telling him he can’t meet the boy taking her to her first dance because he’s her big brother and she loves him but she knows he’ll scare him away. 

She’s seventeen and she’s right in front of him and she looks like Laura, she sounds like Laura and the familiar ache of loss in his chest intensifies.

Derek hates that he missed it, that he doesn’t know how she grew from his shy baby sister into the strong, confident woman in front of him. She doesn’t need him anymore, he knows this, but he’ll be damned if he’s missing any more than he already has. He wants to be a part of her life. He wants to get it right this time.

He’s not even sure there’s a place for him to go back to.

***

“We’re all fucked up right now. You still can’t shift and I can barely turn a corner without seeing Kate but we’re dealing or trying at least. Stile’s is… He’s just…” She trails off but all the possible endings to her sentence are right there in the space between them. She gathers herself and picks the safest conclusion, “Going through the motions.”  
“I think he’s waiting.” Scott says, not really wanting to say anything more, he’s not sure Stiles would appreciate him talking about this. They don’t even talk about this.  
“For what?” Allison has her arms crossed and is staring at him expectantly. Scott caves. In his defense, it’s _Allison_.  
“Who.”  
“What?” her nose is twisted up a little in confusion, Scott tries desperately not to focus on how cute that is.  
“Not for what. For who.” Scott clarifies. It’s not much of a clarification but Allison stops asking and her face is soft with surprise so he thinks she gets it.

He’s actually a little resentful of how quickly she gets it. Scott doesn’t like to think about how long it’d taken him to see, doesn’t like to admit that he’d been too wrapped up in himself to realize it was happening. They’re bro’s, more than that, they’re _brothers_ and Scott should have been paying more attention, should have seen the way the two of them gravitated toward each other. Stiles deserved better and Scott’s going to be better.

Scott’s going to make it up to Stiles and he’s starting with this.

Just as soon as he figures out _how._

 

It’s after midnight and Scott is halfway through his third set of chemistry problems, absently tapping his pen against his textbook when the possibility hits him out of nowhere and he goes suddenly, disconcertingly still.

What if Derek doesn’t come back?

What if he doesn’t know he _can_ come back?

Scott’s been reading up on pack dynamics and territory and everything else Stiles had found even remotely relevant and subsequently researched to within an inch of his sanity . Scott has learned more werewolf lore, from common to obscure to potentially traumatizing, since becoming an Alpha than in the year and a half his eyes were gold.

Stiles hasn’t been sleeping more than an hour or two a night since the Alpha pack and has instead been filling his nights with a seemingly endless game of six degrees of wikipedia. Scott knows this, he has the ever growing stack of print outs to prove it.

It’s closing in on one am when Scott calls Derek.

“I don’t know if you check your messages or if you’re even still using this number but if you ever wanted to come back to beacon hills… You should know you can… and there’s a place here for you… in the pack, I mean… if you want it.”

***

Derek lets himself into the loft, duffle bag in hand, and takes a moment to look around, takes a moment to remember who and where and how and almost. It aches, tugs at his insides and he knows he should turn around, walk back through the still open door, lock it behind him and throw the keys as hard and as far as he can. 

He doesn’t. He’s done running away.

This is where he watched Boyd die on his claws. This is where he made the same damn mistake for the second time. This is where he traded both his power and his pride for Cora’s life. It doesn’t come anywhere close to balancing out and that’s the point, he doesn’t need the reminder but he can’t walk away from it either. Derek’s no stranger to living with his choices, or his regrets. At least he’s still living.

He’s still not sure he’s doing the right thing coming back to live here.

It had taken just over a week for Cora to get so fed up that she’d threatened all sorts of truly emasculating bodily harm and sent him away with the promise of bi-weekly phone calls full of invasive questions about his personal life. He’d scowled and pretended that wasn’t embarrassingly reassuring, she’d laughed, hugged him tight and pretended to believe him. 

He puts his bag down by the stripped bed and swipes his phone from the counter, turning it back on as he takes stock of the kitchen.

You have 17 new voicemails.

 

Derek plugs it in to charge and lets himself hope.

***

Stiles is heading home from lacrosse practice via his usual route, it’s longer than it needs to be but it takes him past the loft. He never stops, just glances at the building on his way past, lets the dark windows and empty car space serve as a reminder.  
For a moment he would swear he saw the Camero parked in the shadows but the loft windows are dark. Stiles shakes it off and keeps driving.  
Reminds himself that just because his entire world has been rocked by a revelation doesn’t mean Derek’s had the same one, a postcard doesn’t mean he’s coming back.

But it doesn’t mean he isn’t either.

 

***

Derek takes a breath and hits call, the most recent message filling his ears with Scott’s voice, stumbling over his offer. It’s awkward and endearing and some of the uncertainty fades.

The next message is from Stiles. The rest of the messages are from Stiles. Derek leans back against the counter and listens, mouth dry. His throat closes up when he hears Stiles saying he misses him, he’s pretty sure at this point that he was never supposed to hear any of this, that Stiles hadn’t thought for a second that he’d actually come back. It’s fair, Derek hadn’t thought he’d come back. It doesn’t matter now though, Stiles missed him. He missed Derek.  
Derek is so stuck on those three words that he completely misses the next few messages. When he finally brings his focus back to his voicemail all he can hear is Stiles, voice broken and honest.

“You could have said goodbye.”

He should have, but he didn’t. It wasn’t really goodbye anyway.

He hangs up and lets his thumb hover over the return call option, it would be so easy to just call. To let it ring once or twice to let Stiles know he was back, that Derek had heard his messages. He owes him more than that though, and he wouldn’t have the faintest clue what to say should Stiles actually answer.

He grabs his keys, throwing on his jacket as he heads down the stairs to the street.

Stiles’ bedroom window is unlocked as always, cracked open just enough for Derek to take it as an invitation. He’s vaulting into Stiles’ room before he can talk himself out of it.

***

The front door has barely slammed shut behind him when he’s thumbing open his phone and hitting the last dialed number. The phone rings and Stiles feels all the air rush out of his lungs. Can’t think, can’t let himself hope, can’t do anything but focus on the ringing echoing in his ears...both ears. He hangs up. Hears it ring once more before the house goes quiet again and he’s taking the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop outside his closed bedroom door.

Stiles is frozen in anticipation and fear and disbelief and a wild, irrational slew of maybes when he hear’s Derek’s voice through the door and the reality of the moment comes crashing in.

“Are you just gonna stand out there or..?” Derek leaves it open, lets the question hang unfinished.  
Stiles nearly yanks the handle clear off his door in his haste to get it open, to get inside.

He’s not sure why he was expecting Derek to look different but he’s glad he doesn’t. He’s the same leather clad, generously stubbled, offensively well-built asshole that Stiles has been fucking dreaming about. He stops a foot away from Derek and stares at him, speechless, waiting for him to do something, say something, prove he’s not some insane, wish-fulfillment style hallucination.

“I should have said goodbye.” Derek’s looking at the floor. He looks nervous, uncertain of his welcome and Stiles can’t take that lost look.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” He asks, fairly sure of the answer but dreading the chance he’s wrong.

“No.”

 

He takes a step closer and then another. He hopes he’s not wrong about this, please God don’t let him be wrong about this.

**Author's Note:**

> I have thought and snippets for a second chapter...it could happen. But for now I thought I'd leave it open and just post as is rather than let it get lost in the mess of unfinished works on my hard drive.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://rynegade.tumblr.com)


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